


Once and Future

by Teyke



Series: Cap-IM Bingo fills [2]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Iron Man (Comic), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Realities, Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teyke/pseuds/Teyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers makes his way to Camelot, seeking to become a knight in the service of King Anthony Stark. The king is not what he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once and Future

**Author's Note:**

> Quick summary of all the relevant info if you haven’t read the specific comics: in the comic What If Iron Man Had Been Trapped in King Arthur’s Time?, Tony gets trapped in King Arthur’s time (surprise!) by Doom. The What If is an alternate ending to [Doomquest](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doomquest), where Tony and Doom get flung back in time to Camelot; when Tony is forced to stay in Camelot, he takes the throne after Arthur dies, then unites half the world and establishes an age of peace and prosperity that lasts for a thousand years. As one does. 
> 
> But it sounded lonely, so I decided to add Steve and write an AU of a What If. This fic also fills the 'writing format: fairy-tale style narration', although, uh, that drops about halfway through. 
> 
> Thank you to Inoshi and Sineala for betaing this for me. All mistakes that remain are, of course, my own.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom both very near and very far away (very near, for of course we are now all united into the Commonwealth of Europa; but very far, for this tale occurs long ago in the time before that union) there was a young knight-hopeful named Steven Rogers; or, as he usually called himself, Steve.

Steve was not born of a high and noble family, and while he had the backing of a rich and powerful sponsor, he was much too far from home for their name to matter. But in the kingdom of Camelot, to which he had travelled, such things mattered not. There, anyone could become a knight so long as he possessed sufficient skill, courage, and a heart both fair and true. This had been established during the reign of Arthur Pendragon, and upon his death, his heir Anthony Stark – for Pendragon had no eligible sons, and so had chosen an heir from among the ranks of his loyal knights – had only broadened such policies.  

This was demonstrated at once during the trials. Where once the first test of any would-be knight would have been in skill in combat, instead the candidates were ushered indoors. They found themselves in a room lit by bright and heatless lamps, with air refreshed by two grates in the ceiling: marvels that amazed those candidates from foreign kingdoms, but which the locals took in stride. There was no time to ask questions, however, for their examiner followed them in and then immediately set to quizzing them on matters of morality and ethics. These Steve answered easily – but though he was by far the most eloquent of the candidates, most of the others had good hearts and good brains, besides. Those who were from Camelot had all been trained to think, although most were commoners themselves.

During the noon meal, Steve leaned over to his benchmate and asked her about it, for he had not thought education to be so widespread in this land. The young woman there – for King Anthony, in his first year upon the throne, had opened the trials to women as well – smiled and explained, “It was another reform of the king’s. He’s opened two schools already, and they’re free for us commoners – the king pays. He wants everyone educated.”

After lunch, they went outside to the dusty practice ground, and were issued weapons and armour – for this, too, the king provided. Gone were the days when a knight was required to provide his own horse and equipment. Steve placed first here again, overcoming every opponent singly or in pairs, and the examiners noted that true to his answers of the morning, he treated every opponent with courtesy and honest kindness. And again, his fellow candidates by and large showed their quality, accepting their losses with good humour.

Their skills at combat were not always so well-developed, however. Only six other men and women besides Steve were judged worthy of knighthood. Sir Bedivere dismissed the unsuccessful candidates with recommendations on what each should practice, then clapped Steve on the shoulder and said, “Good man. Wherever did you learn to fight like that?”

“I picked it up here and there, sir,” said Steve modestly.

“I thought you were done for in the second bout, when you dropped your sword like that.” Bedivere chuckled. “But your true talents lie with a shield! The king will be delighted – he likes such surprises and unusual skills, when they’re on his side. Come, now, all of you – you must bathe and change into fresh clothing before the knighting.”

The soon-to-be-knights were led into the castle proper and to two large chambers, one for men and one for women. To Steve’s astonishment, centered in each room was an enormous pool of hot water, heated by no fire that they could see, and constantly refreshed via metal pipes, so that the water was always clear, clean, and piping hot, which could not be said even for the fabled Roman baths. Nor, the bath attendant assured him, were they hot springs. No, this was yet another of the marvels implemented by the design and order of King Anthony: according to the attendant, it worked on the same principles as the pipes that carried waste from the city, reducing disease and, incidentally, leaving it smelling much better than any other city of that age.

The king himself had not been in attendance at the trials. That was common, in those days, for there were trials every month and the king’s time was increasingly limited. He trusted Sir Bedivere completely when it came to judging such matters, and the knight had never failed him. Thus it was that the first time Steve laid eyes upon his new king was at the knighting ceremony.

Like the others, Steve had been given light armour to wear and a sword to buckle at his hip. As the first-ranked candidate, he was at the head of their small group as Bedivere led them through the doors of the throne room. Along the sides of the hall were clustered both commoners and nobles, the remnants of the day’s Court business and those interested in watching the ceremony.

There were not many of the latter, other than family or friends, for the ceremony occurred quite frequently in those days. Under Anthony’s reign the knighthood expanded as fast as the kingdom’s purse could keep up with it, and under Anthony’s trade policies the purse of the kingdom expanded mightily indeed – and yet somehow, so did the purses of all his merchants, vassals, and commoners. Such was Anthony’s success that in a few more years, foreign kingdoms would become unnerved by Camelot’s growing power and the wondrous mechanical designs of its king, and the War of Foundation would begin. Camelot would no longer be a prosperous but backwater, island-locked nation; it would become the first heart of our Commonwealth.

But on the day that Steve Rogers knelt in front of King Anthony Stark, all that was yet in the future. Here and now, Steve’s heart was pounding, for he had heard a great many things about King Anthony, and indeed, his admiration of the man was one of the foremost reasons he had travelled so far. To offer his shield in service to him was something he had dreamed of long before it had become possible, and now that it was reality, it yet seemed still a dream.

The king stood, smiling at him, and asked, “What is your name, candidate?”

Steve drew off his helmet and laid it by his knee, as was proper, and he looked up into his king’s eyes. “Steve Rogers, Your Majesty.”

That was where it all went wrong. The king’s eyes opened wide, and his jaw dropped. He looked pole-axed, or as though rather than simply removing his helmet, Steve had thrown off all his clothes and danced a jig. “ _Steve?_ ” he said, sounding choked.

“Um, yes, Your Majesty,” Steve said, as whispers and murmurs broke out among their audience.

“Oh my God,” said the king. “It’s really – Good Lord. How – what happened?”

“Your Majesty?” asked Steve, now quite alarmed. The king was looking at him in a way Steve could not interpret, but he seemed greatly confused. Steve felt his insides grow cold, uncertain. If the king were suddenly ill – if he were struck down on this, the very day –

Evidently he was not the only one so concerned. Bedivere stepped quickly to his lord’s side and asked quietly, “Sire? Are you unwell?”

Anthony held up a hand to forestall him and glanced over the assembled crowd. His lips thinned, and then he leaned toward Steve and asked, very quietly, “Is it urgent?”

Steve had no idea what he meant, but he was somewhat reassured by the way Anthony had seemed to regain control of himself. Perhaps, then, this was simply the man’s legendary eccentricity; although none could deny his genius, nor the success of his reforms, even the most vocal of his supporters (which were many) noted fondly that their king was, perhaps, a bit mad. Not a _malicious_ madness, never, nor even a weakening one, but he was a man who would think nothing of single-handedly defeating an army in the morning, and then spending the afternoon building wondrous clockwork toys for peasant children with his own two hands. His fashion and occasionally his language was strange, his dining habits were extremely foreign, and when he had been accepted as a knight by Arthur years ago, he – like Steve – had had neither name nor wealth to back him. _Eccentricity_ , indeed.

Perhaps, Steve thought hopefully, he had simply been distracted, or struck by an idea, and forgetful in that moment, as genius often was. Certainly the man seemed to have now regained his composure. “No, Your Majesty,” Steve said cautiously, and was rewarded for it when Anthony looked briefly relieved and straightened.

“Great,” said Anthony, one of those strange turns of phrase of his, which seemed so foreign to his court but startled Steve with its familiarity. “Bedivere, please take him to my quarters, I’ll be along as soon as I’m done with the others.”

“Yes, sire,” said Bedivere, guiding Steve to his feet with one hand upon his shoulder. Steve barely remembered to grab his helmet off the floor before he was led from the room through a side door. As they left, his ears caught murmurs from the still-disturbed onlookers, and his keen eyes saw the small gesture that Bedivere made to another of the knights, who nodded and stepped up to hover protectively at their king’s side.

In the corridors there were too many servants about, and Bedivere hurried them on more quickly; but when at last they reached the king’s rooms and Bedivere had led him into the front sitting area, and the door was closed, the knight rounded upon him.

“What in God’s name was that?”

“Sir, I don’t know,” said Steve, still feeling shaken not by Bedivere’s demand but by the memory of the confusion that had crossed King Anthony’s face. He wished badly that he had been permitted to stay within the room and ensure the king was well.

“Have you met the king before? He almost seemed to know you. If you did something – ”

“I didn’t,” said Steve. “I haven’t – I’ve never seen him before!” This was true, although it was also true that Steve had seen a great many pictures of him in books: Steve was far more widely-read than most others in this time, and he had read many stories about the king’s great deeds. In those, too, he was called eccentric, but also a visionary.

Steve’s heart sank. Perhaps it was neither madness nor genius, but a combination of both. Perhaps the king, who was renowned for seeing solutions when others had not even realized a problem, had realized something when Steve had knelt before him – perhaps, even, had somehow guessed at Steve’s other motive for offering his shield in service: it did not seem impossible that a man so renowned for his wisdom might catch any hint of dissemblance. But if that was the case, then he yet did not know everything, and any grief the king came to in his confusion could be laid at Steve’s feet.

“Hmm,” said Bedivere, studying Steve’s face. “I believe you. Perhaps you have a similar look to someone else he knew once; the king is from very far away, as are you.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Steve, miserable and worried.

“From the first when he came to court, he has been a man more than half strange,” said Bedivere, not saying it as a criticism but rather fondly instead, and also like a man attempting to reassure himself about the state of his son’s health. “He was already a knight then, but at the time even his armour seemed odd to us, and in truth some days it does still. But he proved himself in the battle against Morgana and her Green Knight, when they sent a tide of the dead against us. Arthur had believed him from the start, of course – Arthur was just as good a judge of character as Anthony. And he’s more than done Arthur proud as his heir.”

The words were spoken in reminiscence, but Bedivere’s eyes remained sharp, weighing upon Steve, testing. Steve nodded obediently, although the tale seemed incredulous to him. An army of the dead – well, evil sorcerers were known to do such things with the foul arts – but the mention of the armour intrigued him. “His armour, sir?”

“It flies,” said Bedivere, amused.

That matched a great many stories and legends that Steve had read and heard – but he had thought them mere rumour. The mechanical marvels of Camelot were one thing; a man who flew in a knight’s plate armour was another. “I hadn’t realized he was a wizard,” said Steve, and then hastily added when Bedivere’s eyes narrowed, “Not that it makes any difference to me, sir knight.”

“As it shouldn’t, although a wizard he is not. As to what he is,” said Bedivere, and then he stopped as one of the front doors was thrown open and the king stepped through. He did not seem any calmer than he had been in the great hall, and Bedivere stepped forward at once, saying, “Sire – ”

“No worries, my friend,” said the king. “I need to talk to Steve alone – it’s fine, he’s not an assassin.”

Steve barely managed to prevent himself from tensing. But it seemed that Bedivere hadn’t noticed, and in any case either was fully obedient to his king – or had heard the underlying steel in that voice, the warning that he would not be pushed on this matter – for Bedivere simply bowed and went out, leaving Steve in private audience with the king.

There were not even any guards. If Steve _had_ been an assassin, then the king had just left himself terribly vulnerable, and Steve felt cold at the thought of the risk King Anthony was taking.

“Steve,” said the king, as soon as the door had swung shut. He crossed the room in a few strides, putting his hands upon Steve’s shoulders and searching his face as though he still could not quite believe his eyes. “It really is you!”

“Sir – sire,” said Steve, “I don’t think I’m who you think I am. I’m just a man who came to Camelot to offer my shield in service. I’d be honoured to be one of your knights, but – ” He cut himself short at that point, for the king’s expression was turning now to one of deep dismay. “I’m sorry,” said Steve lamely, and the king dropped his hands from Steve’s shoulders and turned away. “If you’ll have me, I’ll swear to you.”

For a moment there was silence, and then the king said, voice harsh in the way of one who is reeling from a blow, “Christ, and make you my vassal?” He sounded horrified.

It felt to Steve like King Anthony had dealt a blow of his own. This was, after all, a man who was – and still is – legend; the king who would in the years to come forge the Commonwealth, a tapestry of united nations that would last a millennia and a half; a genius who would establish an era of peace that would last centuries after his death; a man who would push society to new levels of justice, tolerance, and prosperity. He was a man known for his honour who yet had never been betrayed by it. For us, of course, fifteen hundred years has since made much of his legend into myth; but Steve had spent the past few days within Camelot’s walls, speaking to her people, and their love for their king had assured Steve that every myth was true to life.

And this man saw something within Steve that horrified him.

“No, but this doesn’t make sense,” said the king a moment later. “Unless my memory’s going.” He turned back, then, and he quirked a smile at Steve; it looked like a ghastly attempt at bandaging over a wound to hide it. “Sorry, but this has got to be confusing for you, eh, Captain America?”

Steve blinked, startled, and the king grinned with something closer to real humour. The wound was properly bandaged and hidden. “So,” said the king, “it’s not my mistake. Is this some weird charade or did you get conked on the head when they threw you back in time?”

Steve’s jaw dropped. The king waited him out. After a few seconds of silence, Steve managed to close his mouth, then open it again to ask, “How – wait – ”

Many things were clicking into place in his head. Anthony Stark had overshadowed all of history; his inventions had heralded a leap in technology that historians estimated would have taken a millennium otherwise. He had a suit of armour that could fly, in a time when until a few years ago, indoor plumbing had been unheard of. Electric lights lit his castle and the homes of his people.

All primitive compared to the modern day, of course, but he’d had only a few years... and yet the man must still have been a genius, to bring enough knowledge with him and be able to put it to use from scratch. A genius driven by principles, to put his advanced knowledge to use in creating an era of peace and prosperity for all.

“Fucking Victor von Doom is how,” Anthony was saying, in the time that Steve had realized all of this. There was a bitter twist to his smile, now. “And my own damn fault, for trusting him – but I guess I landed on my feet, after all, when Arthur took me in.”

Here the king’s expression softened, showing some of the reverence he’d had for his friend and mentor. But this, too, passed after a moment – the king was apparently a man of mercurial moods – and then the king said, “I thought, when I saw you, that the Avengers had – well, anyway. That can wait. You’re looking kinda concussed. If something went wrong with the trip, you might have landed wrong, too.”

“Avengers?” Steve asked, his theory cracking slightly. Or, wait – if Anthony had recognized _him_ , then maybe he was from further in Steve’s future, and referring to something yet to come?

“Crap,” said Anthony. “Um. Well, you remembered Captain America, right?”

“No,” said Steve, and then hastily backtracked when the king’s expression became even more concerned. “I mean, yes, but I’m not her. Captain Europa, at your service.”

The king went a bit pale. “Europa?”

“Of the Commonwealth of Europa, founded by – gee, by you, though none of the history books ever worked out that you’re... a time-traveller,” said Steve, wonderingly. It made a great deal of sense – but Good Lord! It must have been difficult for the man, being stranded in a time not his own, and yet look what he’d done with it.

“Oh, God,” said Anthony, and it came out half-choked. He stumbled toward a chair and sat down, pressing his head into his hands; much concerned, Steve looked around and found a pitcher of water, which he poured into the wooden cup sitting beside it and brought over to the man. The king did not seem to notice. “Oh God,” he said again, when Steve knelt in front of him. “I changed things.”

“What do you mean?” asked Steve, and when the king looked up he took advantage of the opportunity to carefully press the cup into Anthony’s hands.

Anthony did not drink. “I changed things. The course of history, your future’s different from mine. I mean, I knew it would be, but under the parallel worlds theory I still thought – well, but it wouldn’t be – ” he smiled, and it was a terrible, heartbreaking thing. “I guess you’re really not here to bring me home.”

The words dropped between them like a weight.

Steve’s breath caught. Of course, Anthony would wish to return – he had left behind an entire life, presumably, friends and family and loved ones. But if he wanted to return to the future – what would happen to the timeline? His sudden disappearance from it might be worse than what Steve had come here to prevent!

Honesty demanded that Steve answer, but nonetheless he couldn’t quite meet the king’s eyes when he finally did. “The Skrull Empire declared war on the Terran Union a few years ago. It hasn’t been going well for them. A couple days ago, we captured a base where their scientists were messing about with time-travel, but it was too late – they’d already sent one of their agents back in time. Based on when they sent him… we think he’ll try to kill and impersonate you. Our scientists think that if he changes the course of human history carefully enough, he could weaken the Terran Union without splitting off a new timeline. So they sent me back to before the agent’s arrival, to stop him.”

“Christ,” said Anthony, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said Steve. From what little he understood of temporal theory, his world would never even have existed in the first place if Anthony hadn’t been stranded. But this felt like leaving a man behind.

“For coming here to save my life?”

“No, not – for not being what you deserve.”

Anthony looked away. “Yeah, that’s debatable.”

“No,” said Steve, but the king was already moving on, passing a hand over his face and asking, “So, when’s this historical switcheroo supposed to occur? Within the month, I guess, if you showed up today.”

“The next few months, is their best guess,” said Steve, allowing him that grace and feeling miserably guilty it was required. “They made sure to send me back early, rather than be too late, so it could be up to a year – it’s hard for the temporal monitors to get it exact when it’s so far back.”

“Temporal monitors. Terran Union. Christ. Okay. So, you’ll – stick around until then, foil it, then what? Tell me you didn’t sign on for a one-way trip.”

That should have had alarm bells ringing in the back of Steve’s head, but Anthony didn’t have the look of a man searching for an escape. He just looked concerned and tired, a prisoner who didn’t want to see another dragged down with him, and it made Steve feel all the worse when he said, “They’re going to pull me out five minutes after they sent me, a year here. If I’ve succeeded, the timeline won’t have changed, so...”

“Right.” Anthony swallowed, and finally took a drink of the water, draining the cup in one long swallow. He wiped his mouth and set the cup aside. “Look, get up, stop... kneeling like that. I get you’ll need to stick close, fine, but I can’t – you’re not swearing any oaths of service to me and that’s final.”

Steve obediently stood. “Captain America, uh, not your best friend, I take it?” Would that be even more of a problem, if the king was predisposed to dislike him? That might explain some of Anthony’s reactions – but he’d looked in part _happy_ to see him, before everything had – no, it had all gone wrong from the very beginning, Steve had to admit.

Anthony’s answer, when it came, was very quiet. “Actually, he is. Was.”

 _Oh,_ thought Steve.

“Go get Bedivere, I’ll tell him I knighted you privately. It’s not really done, but whatever, I’m the king.” Anthony’s voice was still quiet. “He’ll show you around with the others, your duties – I’ll have you assigned as one of my bodyguards.”

“Thank you,” said Steve. It would certainly make keeping Anthony safe a lot easier.

Anthony opened his mouth, looking about to say something – but then he shut it again, and waved Steve toward the door. Steve hesitated, hating the decision. Were he to go – but were he to stay –

There was a year yet for him to figure something else out, Steve decided, and went to get the door.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hour of Greatest Need (The Left to His Own Devices Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989789) by [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala)




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